


My shot

by pearypie



Series: stars in your eyes (or: the Hamilton chronicles) [4]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: An exasperated Phipps who really doesn't know what Grey is doing, Banter, F/M, Fluff, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 15:18:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7981273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles Grey has been given an opportunity to secure Lady Elizabeth's affections. </p><p>And he is not throwing away his shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My shot

_This is not a moment, it’s the movement/ Where all the hungriest brothers with/ Something to prove went./ Foes oppose us, we taken an honest stand/ We roll like Moses, claimin’ our promised land._ — Alexander Hamilton, 'My Shot' 

* * *

 

To love, as they say, was a burdensome thing. So very exhausting and full of contradictions when the object of one’s affections seemed to care very little about forming a more perfect union together. 

He says as much out loud. 

“That,” Phipps announces, “is a terrible way to go about things.” He is sitting in an armchair by the large bay windows, reading a book written in Basque, and looking entirely too washed out by the pale sunlight to appear as anything more than a ghost. 

Grey, reclining on a chaise lounge and fiddling with an imported French saber, disagrees. “It _is._ I think I’ll kidnap her now. Just take her away and convince her marriage is better than spinsterhood. After all, I am _very_ charming.” 

“No, you’re not.” Phipps, with his brutally honest sort of way, rebuffs his friend though his intentions are not entirely unkind. “You’ve not done a single thing to show her any modicum of affection and I highly doubt you taunting her on the fencing arena makes for good courtship.” 

“What? You think after being engaged to Phantomhive all these years she’ll _want_ a regular courtship? By Jove, that would be the most disastrous—not to mention horribly _boring_ —thing since Britain’s conquest of India.” 

Phipps turns over a page and ignores his companion’s comment. “Have you ever called on her?” 

“Of course I have.” Grey sits up and tosses the French saber to the floor. “I call her everything from Midford to Elizabeth to mine.” 

An expression of frustrated contempt flashed over Phipps’s (usually) cool visage and he closed his book, turning his full attention to a blithe and painfully ignorant Charles. “Do you want my opinion?” 

“Not particularly but since you’re about to give it—“ 

“You are, by far, the worst suitor I have ever seen.” 

Grey looks affronted. “Lizzy likes me.” 

“I’m sure. She also likes the air she breathes and the water she drinks.” 

“Are you saying she’s indifferent? Towards _me?_ ” 

“I think you give yourself far too much credit.” Phipps amends, turning back to his novel. “In any case, don’t agitate her father. He’s amongst her majesty’s favorites.” 

Grey pauses, silent for half a minute, and Phipps wonders if his words have registered. It’s not that he doesn’t wish for Grey to marry—in fact, he desperately wishes a woman would come along and entrance this egoistic swordsman. For while he cares deeply for his childhood friend, there is only so much of him Phipps can tolerate on a daily basis. Yet Grey, with his confident exuberance, has a tendency to run his mouth. Badly. And at the worst of times. He’s been able to get away with it for this long because he’s a member of her majesty’s court, privy to all of England’s secrets, but no amount of royal protection will save him from the wrath of a woman scorned—particularly if that woman is his wife and a prodigy with the sword herself. 

Phipps, goodnatured man that he is, does not wish to plan Grey’s funeral before he’s had a chance to enjoy his freedom. 

“I’m going to marry Lizzy.” Grey announces, so suddenly and with such conviction that Phipps thinks he’s misheard. 

“Pardon?” 

“Yes, that’s it.” Grey stands up, arms crossed behind his head. “I’m going to marry Lizzy.” He glances down at a flabbergasted Phipps. “I appreciate the advice, old chum.” There’s a hint of jovial decisiveness in his voice, as if he’s finally discovered the correct path and it was Phipps who handed him the candle. 

Said friend, with his shellshocked expression, pales. “Wait—that’s not what I—“ 

“In any case, do you think I ought to propose now or tomorrow?” 

“Grey—“

“Well, I’m off!” 

“Grey!”

 

* * *

 

Of course, Grey’s not entirely stupid. He is, after all, her majesty’s private secretary and one of the few people who can stand alongside the Queen’s Watchdog and observe him, unafraid and unimpressed. The fact of the matter is, Grey likes Lizzy and when he sees something (or in this case, someone) he likes, he wants it. 

And he wants her. 

She’s bright, beautiful, and makes him smile. He’s seen what she can do with a blade and knows the ferocity behind her attacks are a partial swan song to the love she’s lost. 

Grey’s never understood why everyone swooned over that blue haired brat but he can’t account for society’s bad taste. The boy let Lizzy get away and now Grey's quite overjoyed that he did. Lizzy would be 17 very soon and he intended to surprise her with something magnificent; it would be rather difficult to obtain the material from Calais but he’s never been deterred by a challenge. 

Glancing outside his carriage, Grey thinks that there must be some part of Elizabeth Midford who cares for him too. She’s smiled at him with such sweetness and made him laugh with such genuine joy that he did not think her completely angelic—she must feel something other than common friendship towards him. She _has_ to. Grey is a proud man with a very healthy sense of self confidence but his subconscious, wretched thing it is, knows full well a rejection from Elizabeth might put him into a state of melancholic fury that would end badly for anyone who crossed his path. 

Outside, he spies the grey cobblestone; the saturated streets and shops and the dull, boring little people milling about, going on with their day to day lives. Lizzy doesn’t belong in England, he realizes with a sort of hazy surprise, she belongs in Vienna. She belongs in Paris and Milan and Rome. 

She belongs to every beautiful place in this world where she can be happy and free from the obligations of the queen. 

She should marry an Italian count of perhaps a Belgian duke—but they, admittedly, are unworthy of her and Grey would hate to see Lizzy’s potential wasted on lesser men. 

So, he supposes he will have to be selfish and marry Elizabeth himself. It's a perfectly good argument. 

He decides he’ll love her enough that she won’t need France or Austria or Italy—not when she has him. 

And not while he has her.

 

* * *

 

Seven weeks later, Lady Elizabeth Midford is taking tea in the rose lounge of Midford Manor when she receives a large, cleverly wrapped oblong package. It’s clothed in beautiful emerald satin, tied with a silver ribbon, with a heavy piece of vellum attached. The card—too large to be a postmark and too plain for decoration—calls out to her and Lizzy, a curious, bright spirited child by nature, acts on the impulse—

 

_Lady Midford,_

_I might have laughed as I was writing this but then again, I don’t suppose you’d be surprised._ (“Charles Grey.” Lizzy shakes her head, half-exasperated, half-amused. “I should have known. I do hope he hasn’t made good on his promise and sent me an actual head.”) _Don’t worry, I haven’t made good on my promise to send you an actual head. That would be far too grotesque for afternoon tea talk._

_In any case, this is a letter of reproach from me to you. I’ve been very unhappy with the way things have progressed between us. You, Elizabeth Midford, are such an exacting woman._

_You’ve taken advantage of my sensibilities and stolen into my affections without my consent. I can think of no one else except you._

_Her majesty desires I visit Prague for a while, to solve a little matter that is, to be quite frank, not very little. That old, stuffy duke ought to pass away already—he’s taking up too much of my time with his constant demands for more, more, more. We don’t need him to regulate our trade routes for us. You would do a far better job than he, that tired old goat._

_Besides that, the bastard's taking me away from you and I think I will miss you terribly while I’m away. But then again, you are now always on my mind so I suppose you won’t ever be far away._

_(But I shall miss you still.)_

_Save me a waltz._

 

_Yours,_

_C. Grey_

 

She places down the heavy vellum card, picks it back up, re-reads the words, and suddenly feels as if she’s drunk too much champagne. The whole world is a blur of colors and light and nothing makes sense. Some part of her suspected that Grey might not entirely despise her but Lizzy is now wary of love and recoils whenever affection is shown. Where she once used to embrace, she now shies away with smiles and jokes. She tries to run as far away as possible, as quickly as possible. 

The card in her hand reminds her that she’s done a poor job of it. 

Charles Grey is so unlike Ciel in so many ways. He's loud, brash, unsubtle, intrusive, outspoken, and completely and utterly…wonderful. (So she supposes they might share a characteristic after all.) 

William Makepeace Thackeray once said, _to love and win is the best thing. To love and lose, the next best._

Lizzy blames her constitution—the girl who can never stop loving—but cannot help the smile that appears on her face. Grey has, in his own way, taught her to love and, by some strange art, Lizzy has redirected that affection towards him. 

Love, she decides, is not a limited commodity—and Charles Grey is certainly worthy of it as any other man. 

So, with a feather plumed quill, she him writes back.

 

* * *

 

(She does not open the package until later. When she sees a gleaming silver sword embedded with forest green emeralds, she promises to give Grey a full kiss on the mouth for such a gift. After all—he might need some consolation after his defeat.) 

**Author's Note:**

> \- “You’ve taken advantage of my sensibilities and…” — modified quote from Alexander Hamilton’s letter: “You should not have taken advantage of my sensibility to steal into my affections without my consent.” 
> 
> A/N: More Grey/Lizzy! (Because I love them a lot.) Gimme a pairing you wanna see next!


End file.
